Postcard from Paradise
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Celebrating
San Francisco
We’re celebrating the life of San Francisco, the patron
saint of Chapala here this week so don’t try calling me this weekend, I’m
completely booked.
Better known to most gringos as the statue of the guy
standing in the concrete bird feeder, the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi,
brings out all the faithful, along with troupes of costumed dancers, marching
bands, necromancers, parade floats, and most of the farm animals for miles
around, for nine straight days of eccentricities, festivities, and questionable
behavior.
The skyrockets start blasting you from your bed at 5:00
AM each morning so that you’re sure to be on time for the 6:00 AM departure of
the procession carrying the statue of San Francisco through town for the 7:00
AM rosary at the church. While this is believed by some to be an inexpensive
method of providing annual early- morning coronary screening for an entire
neighborhood, rather than being followed by the sound of ambulance sirens, the
next sound you hear is the cacophony of what seems like dozens of marching
brass bands banging up and down every street in the village, sort of like a
snooze alarm for those who missed the first wakeup call.
The big event is tomorrow, beginning of course with the
procession and rosary, but continuing all day with endless celebrations,
blessings and prayers. All the streets in town are closed to traffic and
parking, booths hawking traditional foods, trinkets, prayer candles, and
Milagros line the boulevards and alleyways, Mariachis roam the streets and play
a kind of call and response that echoes back and forth across the neighborhood.
Balloon vendors, veterinarians, organic pet food sellers and taco stands set up
shop next to games of chance and mechanical rides for the kids. There’s a ride
that’s sort of like a carousel or merry-go-round, but the horses have all been
replaced with goats, perhaps because in this culture riding a horse is not a
novelty, or perhaps it’s a nod to this frequent symbol of Saint Francis.
At noon is the traditional Blessing of the Animals and
in addition to the armloads of lapdogs and petrified cats the streets are knee
deep in goats, pigs, donkeys, and sheep. After blessing the personal pets
presented to him at the top of the church steps, the priest wades out into this
urban barnyard and with prayers, laughter, and roars of approval from the
crowd, sprinkles holy water on all the animals in sight. Only the cats seem to
be ignoring the festivities, or perhaps plotting their revenge. There is of
course the traditional evening mass and devotions followed by a massive
glittering Castillo fireworks display on the plaza just outside the church.
I don’t remember religious celebrations being like this
in the Catholic parish where I grew up in Boston. I don’t ever remember saying
a rosary on St Francis Day, much less going to church. I do remember Monsignor
Finn lecturing from his perch above the congregation each Sunday about Saint
Jerome or some other obscure saint while everyone in the congregation snored
back at him, but the only other saints I remember are Saint Patrick, and St
Nicholas. Memory is of course a selective and faulty thing, but I’m sure I’d
have remembered the part where everyone carried their pet goats up to the altar
to be blessed, or the part where the Monsignor rolled up his sleeves (and his
pant legs) and led the procession of goats through the city of Boston
sprinkling holy water on all the beasts he could find; but I don’t. Going to
church as I recall was a penance, not a celebration.
In contrast to what’s happening here, slaughtering
animals as surrogates for the rest of us seems to be a time honored tradition
in many of the world’s religious celebrations this weekend. In Pakistan alone
7.5 million goats, according to the Washington Post, will be slaughtered
tomorrow on Eid al-Adha marking the end of the Hajj and in remembrance of
Abraham’s sacrifice of a ram in place of his son. In other communities around
the world, Yom Kippur, a Day of Atonement and repentance begins at sundown
tonight. In ancient times Jewish communities, according to tradition, selected
a goat from the herd and ritually made it the bearer of all their sins and then
cast it into the wilderness, chasing after it and taking the obvious measures
necessary to ensure that it would never return to the herd. In Christian
communities tomorrow, on the feast of San Francisco whose pastoral image is
inevitably pictured with an adoring goat curled up at his feet, no goats will
be slaughtered, eaten, or cast away; a small step perhaps for the Catholic
church, but one welcomed and celebrated here.
I wonder none-the-less just
exactly what they’re serving in all those empanadas and tamales at all these
taco stands that have blossomed here this weekend. Is San Francisco also the
patron saint of vegans?
